


Ideation

by valda



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Depression, Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:35:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4527630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valda/pseuds/valda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sphere throbbed. Cecil stepped forward, reaching out a hand. If he squinted, if he pretended <em>just</em> right, the sphere was like a dark planet, lit by no sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ideation

**Author's Note:**

> This goes along with episode 69, "Fashion Week."

He scoffed quietly to himself as he cut his mic and the On Air light fizzled into black nothingness. He’d done it again; he’d segued to the weather oh-so-dramatically, as if anyone even cared about what would happen. He was a storyteller, and when he shared information he did so in the form of stories, even when they were stories no one cared about. Even when they were stories that annoyed people or made people angry or drove people away. He couldn’t help that part— _he_ was annoying, _he_ made people angry, _he_ drove people away. It was only natural that his stories would, too.

He could have restrained himself this once. Why bother people with the foolish things he was feeling?

Why even exist at all?

The humming had been growing louder as he sat, waiting. Now, finally, there it was. The sphere had arrived and it was beautiful.

Cecil rose from his chair.

It would be dark inside the sphere. Pulsating. He would be blind and there would be a deafening thrumming and it didn’t really matter after that, because all of this would be over.

Everything would be better if he wasn’t around. Everyone would be happy. Everyone would be free. No one would have to hear him complain anymore. He knew no one wanted to hear that, but he was so stupid. He just kept doing it. He was a selfish jerk, whining on the radio about dumb problems that were his own damn fault, forcing all of Night Vale to witness how pathetic he was night after night.

The sphere throbbed. Cecil stepped forward, reaching out a hand. If he squinted, if he pretended _just right_ , the sphere was like a dark planet, lit by no sun.

His fingertips grazed the oddly warm, slick surface of the sphere, then slowly slipped inside. His hand disappeared, then his forearm. He had thought he might feel something, but he felt nothing, like his body was just—going away.

“Nothing” was a good feeling.

Cecil plunged forward, face and chest and legs and arms striking the sphere and passing within it, and everything was nothing and _he_ was nothing and it was the most beautiful lack, the most precious nonexistence.

It was perfect.

And then it was over.

He emerged abruptly from the other side and it was almost painful, the air pressure against his skin, the dim recording booth light in his eyes, the dusty, ancient smell that permeated the studio filling his nose. All the signs of normalcy, of continuance, of an existence unconstrained by the human constructs of time and space.

Cecil scoffed again, that he had dared to hope.

The sphere had spared him.

The sphere had damned him.

He had damned himself.

He would leave. He would leave and join Carlos, wonderful Carlos who put up with so much, and Kevin—Kevin, who could do the right thing, if necessary.

Yes. He would go. He would disappear. And maybe he would even find an end.

But for once, he would not explain his true intentions. For once, he would not force the people of Night Vale to listen to his pathetic feelings.

He would tell them he was leaving because it would make him feel better. And then no one would ever have to worry about him again.


End file.
